It was nearly 2 a.m. when Arnold Blaze left the penthouse.
The city below was dark, quiet in that deceptive way only wealthy neighborhoods could be—calm on the surface, hollow underneath. He didn't take his usual car. No driver. No itinerary. Just a jacket, his phone, and a head full of questions.
He couldn't sleep.
Not because of Victor.
Not because of the upcoming arbitration war.
But because of her.
Lilith's voice—soft, uncertain, almost pleading—lingered in his mind like smoke. The way she had flinched when she said she wasn't scared of her past, just scared of what happened when it caught up.
He had seen fear before. Real fear. The kind that comes after ruin, not before it. She wasn't bluffing.
And that made her valuable.
But it also made her fragile.
Arnold didn't deal in fragile. He built things that couldn't break.
So why the hell was she still on his mind?
—
At the same hour, Specter sat on a rooftop two buildings over from Lilith's apartment. Thermal imaging showed no visitors. Lights had been off for almost an hour.
She was alone.
He didn't need to do this tonight. He had all the shots he needed for now—timestamps, routines, facial expressions logged and cataloged. Still, he watched. Not for Victor's money. Not even for the thrill.
But for a pattern.
And Lilith was starting to unravel.
She was jumpier now. Looking over her shoulder. Staying longer behind the counter, avoiding windows. There was history buried under that skin. Something Specter hadn't quite cracked yet.
But he would.
His phone buzzed, vibrating silently in his glove.
A message from Victor Sterling:
"Continue surveillance. Do not approach. If Blaze reaches out, I want a full transcript."
Specter typed back, short and clinical.
"Noted. She's cracking."
Victor's reply came almost immediately.
"Good. Let her."
—
The next morning, Isabella waited at a corner café in the financial district, two phones on the table and a file in her bag.
Her contact was late.
She hated working outside the office. It felt exposed. But some things couldn't be logged in board meeting minutes or sent over encrypted servers.
Especially not this.
She checked her watch, then spotted the man approaching. Slim. Nondescript. Government-issued attitude.
"Isabella Brooks?" he asked, sliding into the seat across from her.
She nodded. "You got the background I asked for?"
The man slipped her a thumb drive under a napkin. "We pulled what we could. A lot's been buried—intentionally. But there are fragments."
She plugged it into her tablet and skimmed.
"Alias: L. Morgan (2018-2020). Employment: Defunct charity. Raid. Embezzlement allegations—never filed. Witness Protection contact suggested but unconfirmed."
Isabella's stomach turned.
So Lilith hadn't just vanished.
She'd been erased.
"Any Sterling connection?" she asked.
The man shook his head. "Not direct. But Harold's name shows up on the donor list for that charity. Low-key, under a holding name. Could be a coincidence. Could be everything."
Isabella sat back, tense. "She's more dangerous than Arnold realizes."
"Or more useful," the man added. "Depends what game he's playing."
—
Lilith had barely opened The Reading Nook when the bell above the door chimed, and Arnold walked in.
She stiffened behind the counter.
He wasn't scheduled. He hadn't texted. And something in his eyes today was different. Focused. Harder.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
"Now's not a good time," she replied, wiping her hands on a towel she didn't need to use.
He stepped closer. "Then make time."
That cold control again. The same tone he used in boardrooms and war rooms.
Lilith swallowed. "Is this about the proposal?"
"No."
A long pause stretched between them.
"I know you lied about Harold Sterling," he said flatly.
Her breath hitched.
"I didn't lie," she said, barely above a whisper. "I just didn't tell you everything."
Arnold stepped closer still, his voice low but cutting. "There's a difference?"
"Yes," she snapped. "Because if I told you everything, you'd look at me like I was a liability."
"I already am," he said.
That stopped her cold.
He exhaled. The briefest sign of wear.
"You were involved in something with Harold," he said. "And now Victor is circling you. I need to know how deep it goes."
Lilith met his gaze, wounded but unyielding. "What difference does it make? You don't trust me. You've never trusted me. You've been calculating every move since the day we met."
Arnold didn't deny it.
"Then why are you here?" she demanded.
He hesitated. That rare flicker of truth rippling through the armor.
"Because I don't like not knowing," he said. "And I don't like how much I want to."
—
That night, Specter caught his first real moment.
From his perch across the street, he saw Arnold return to the café after hours. Saw him stand at the door for a long moment, hand raised, then lowered again.
He didn't knock.
He just stood there in the dark.
Then turned and walked away.
Specter captured the whole thing.
And as the cameras rolled, he smiled behind his mask.
Because now?
Now it was personal.